We're all mad here
by noctema
Summary: Welcome to the madhouse. ScarecrowxOC.


_This is a prologue, more than anything. I don't really have any idea where this is going, so I'm still working on that. In the meantime, I wrote this. And the sex scene. Speaking of that, there will be sex. In fact, I think there will be lots of it. If not, there will at least be one juicy, long lemon. Mmm, lemony. And, as I'm talking about Arkham Asylum here, probably some pretty sick shit too. I'll try to do justice to all the characters in here, because most of them will be making an appearance. Except Bane, because I don't care about him. Oh, and word—this is strictly a ScarecrowxOC story. I don't do ridiculous love triangles. I'll be focusing mostly on them. And I'll try to make my beloved Scarecrow as believable as possible. Two other notes: Justine (my OC), her name comes from a French novel entitled Justine, or the Misfortunes of Virtue by Marquis de Sade. I'll just be making some references and I didn't want anyone to be confused. Last one, I promise—for appearances I'll be using a sort of mix between the Batman Begins Scarecrow and the original. I would prefer to just use the Batman Begins one, but then I wouldn't really be sticking true to the original. But I don't want him to be ugly...so. There you go. _

* * *

I was asleep when madness erupted in the madhouse. I dreamed peacefully through the sounds of the doctors and guards being shot and beaten, through the maniacal laughter that came from the intercoms, though the explosions and the screams.

When I finally woke up all was quiet, which was not uncommon in my ward, so I did not panic. I remained lying down, still pleasantly half-asleep, my eyes slowly blinking as to get accustomed to the light. At least when I had the strength to move, I stretched my arms out and sat up, my bones cracking from sleeping in an awkward position. I waited a minute or so for the guard that always came to get me for breakfast and a change of clothes, and when he did not come I stood up, shivering briefly from the chill of the stone floor, and made my way to the iron bars.

I noticed immediately that the lock was smashed open.

I wondered, perhaps, if I were still in a dream—I reached out attentively, and the door swung open easily. Someone had set me free, but who? I noted the dead silence—usually the quiet in the asylum was an active stillness, the business of the doctors and the restlessness of the patients making it impossible for the air to remain completely still. Now, there were no shuffling papers, no footsteps, no slight snores from my neighbors. My body began to tense up in response to the danger I instinctively sensed.

I disliked going outside of my cell with only my night clothes on (which was hardly modest, consisting of a pair of orange shorts and a white tank-top), but I had no choice. My two options were to go out and explore, seeing what the problem was, or wait in my cell for someone—or something—to come and find me. The former seemed the better and obvious choice, so I went with that.

There was not a soul in my ward. No guards, no patients, and no doctors. I considered this very odd, because most doctors liked to hang around my area because the patients in this sector were all moderately quiet and well-behaved. I often heard them complaining about their more difficult sessions with men like the Joker and the Riddler. I heard stories of the more frightening occupants, such as the Killer Croc and Zsasz, and had no desire to run into either of those. So I moved quickly and quietly, thankful, for once, of my limber frame and my small feet. I did not know where I was going, but I did not think it mattered, for everything was deserted—no guards, no doctors, not even a loose patient or madman—thankfully.

I had been walking for over an hour, so I sat and rested my legs, and huddled closer into myself to get some warmth. It was unnaturally cold, so I decided then to go and find some clothes. Surely an asylum this large must have a map for newcomers? After a few minutes of catching my breath, I got up, but ceased my movements when I heard some gunshots—never a good sign. I looked around quickly for a place to hide, and some lockers that doctors used were a few feet away from me, so I hurriedly hid my body in one. I stayed perfectly silent, not even daring to breath through my mouth, and watched as a large and imposing shadow passed in front of me, blocking the light filtering in through the slits. "Oh, yes, yes, yes. Scared little girl, I'm coming for you. All cuddled up in your bed, blissfully unaware of your fate! Poor, little babe all alone in the madhouse gone mad. Justine, Justine, where are you? Sane girl trapped in a wonderland of insanity...purity seeking to be corrupted. Scared, scared."

I recognized the voice immediately as Jonathan Crane—or more commonly known as Scarecrow. The one person I wished more than anything not to run into, and here he was, seeking me out.

I dared not even breathe, now. My body grew rigid and unmoving with terror, and my eyes followed his movements and my ears listened, until his footsteps and his insane mumbling died away. He was no doubt heading towards my cell, and once he discovered I was not there, he would come and search for me. I had to get out of the asylum, and fast. Before I ended up dead or another one of Crane's experiments.


End file.
